They are suckers for physical comedy, their own notwithstanding.
And because I laughed once, they think they have found the key to my sense of humor: all I need is to watch them fall on the floor, smack themselves in the face, or hit themselves on the head with a toy, and I fall over with laughter.
It's such a boy thing.
(I imagine this is true. Perhaps little girls get caught up in the same antics, but I just imagine daughters spend their time doing gentle, quiet, sophisticated things. Like coloring and tea parties. Not bashing their faces with pots from the play kitchen.)
They especially love this behavior in the car. And they always want my undivided attention: "Mommy, watch. Mommy, watch." In those moments, I am abundantly thankful for the road ahead. It needs my full attention. Sorry, guys. Mommy's driving. You'll have to be content to show off for each other.
So they banter back and forth:
One brother says, "Watch."
The other brother says, "Okay. I'm watching."
And the first brother leans forward and then slams himself back, bashing his head into the carseat headrest.
Giggle, giggle, giggle.
They take turns, as the actor and the audience, and they never get tired of this routine.
I foresee hours and hours of America's Funniest Home Videos in their future.
After all, what's funnier than somebody hurting himself?